


Les Âmes

by Oilan



Series: Ghost AU [2]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Afterlife, Blood and Injury, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 06:51:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16470824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/pseuds/Oilan
Summary: Enjolras had never entertained the notion of ghosts or spirits existing, though it was difficult to deny their existence now, when he himself was one.





	Les Âmes

 The blinding flash of a dozen muskets gave way to whiteness, and then to dark. When Enjolras opened his eyes again, it seemed twilight, though he could not have accounted for any time having passed at all. Everything was grey, muted, and the small amount of light that filtered in through the Corinthe’s splintered windows was pale and thin.

The scene was still, almost eerie, and a vague sense of disquiet had settled over everything like dust. Just a moment ago the bright June sun had been shining in, the national guardsmen surrounding him, shouts and turmoil in the street, but now—nothing. Enjolras could not even smell the gunpowder smoke, though surely it still hung in the air.

He looked around, unnerved to his core. How was it possible that he could be seeing anything at all? Surely he should be dead. 

Across the room, barely visible in the greyish dark, was Grantaire. He was staring at Enjolras, standing near the hole where the staircase to the lower room had once been as though he wanted desperately to leave but could not quite bear to go.

They regarded each other silently for a moment. Enjolras said nothing, perplexed by the wide-eyed look Grantaire was giving him.

“So,” Grantaire said at last, without a trace of his usual sardonic tone. Indeed, his voice was hushed, almost frightened. “You, as well.”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras took a step forward, but froze almost immediately. At his feet, in a puddle of dark blood, lay Grantaire.

The disconnect between what was before him nearly made his head swim. Bewildered, Enjolras stepped over the body, the Grantaire across the room watching him all the while, and turned to look behind him.

What he saw was himself, head bowed, somehow still standing upright, blood staining his shirt from eight bullet wounds. The blood, his clothing, even the tricolor sash at his waist were all shades of grey.

What he felt in that moment was so far beyond anything he had ever experienced, he did not have it in him to begin describing it. Loss, confusion, horror—every word seemed desperately inadequate. It was unsettling to the very depths of his being, and he wondered why he could not feel his heart racing at the sight—surely it was impossible that its beat could remain steady, after beholding such a sight. He looked down at himself almost numbly, not knowing what to expect, and found himself a reflection of the body leaning against the wall. All eight bullet woulds, every splatter of blood and smudge of dust identical. Only, he could dimly see the floorboards through his feet.

Somehow, in defiance of all logic, he understood.

Enjolras had never entertained the notion of ghosts or spirits existing, though it was difficult to deny their existence now, when he himself was one.

Grantaire took a few slow steps towards him, and as he did so his form became more visible, more defined against the gloom, though like Enjolras he seemed semi-transparent. He walked so close to the billiard table Enjolras had pushed between himself and the broken staircase that surely he would bump against it, but his leg merely passed right through. Here and there, his dark tailcoat was stained with even darker blood.

“Are we the only ones?”

His voice was still quiet, uneasy. Enjolras almost wished for Grantaire to resume his usual mien, to even make a lewd jibe—anything to set the world a little more right again.

“I don’t know.”

_But how could this be?_  Grasping, perhaps, at Grantaire’s more answerable question, Enjolras strode to the remains of the window to look out into the Rue de la Chanvrerie.

He had been right, it was nearly evening, but something told him that even if it had been day, the sun would not shine quite as brightly for them—not anymore. Even the twilight had never before been as dim as it was now. Men were working below, gathering up the bodies scattered in the street and piled in the Rue Mondetour, speaking only in low voices. Their wooden carts were piled high with insurgents and national guardsmen alike, blood dripping down, ready to be transferred to the morgue to be claimed.

One of the carts stood almost directly in front of the Corinthe and across it, Courfeyrac was flung sideways, face down, hair matted with blood. Enjolras watched as two workers hoisted another body atop him, and as they moved away Enjolras saw Combeferre, eyes still slightly open, three ghastly bayonet wounds piercing his chest. Enjolras felt hollow.

“Look, there!” Grantaire had joined him at the window, and was now pointing at something a short distance away from the men with the carts, nearer to where the barricade had stood. Enjolras squinted. Pale forms were there, so faint and transparent they were nearly invisible where they stood huddled together.

“Come, let’s go and see!” There was something of Grantaire’s old self in his voice again, in the grin he now had on his face, and Enjolras found himself taking heart in it as he had never done in life. “It could be them!”

No more thought was spared for their empty corpses left in the billiard room, so eager were they to get outside. The problem of the Corinthe’s missing staircase was solved without effort; they were both able to effortlessly drift through the opening in the floor and walk outside. As they made their way toward where they had seen the figures, Enjolras held fast to the burgeoning hope that it would be their friends, and as they approached he found it was not in vain. The forms of Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Joly, and Bossuet all came into focus, grouped close together, whispering to each other in confused, distressed voices.

Courfeyrac was the first to spot them, and uttered a cry of joy. Enjolras barely had time to register the two wounds he bore, one at his side and the other over his heart, before Courfeyrac swept him into an embrace. Enjolras wrapped his arms around him in turn, unexpectedly grateful that this was something he could still experience. Someone else lay a hand on his back, and he heard Combeferre’s voice breathe, “Oh! Thank God!”

“I knew you both wouldn’t leave us,” said Bossuet from his left, though Courfeyrac, sniffling a bit now, made no move to release Enjolras and so he could not turn to look at him.

“I’m not certain any of us had a choice in the matter,” Enjolras said, extricating himself from Courfeyrac gently. “But--we are here together.”

Courfeyrac wiped at his eyes. “Yes, but we are still missing-“

“Missing no one, Courfeyrac!” said a loud voice behind them.

The group turned to see Bahorel sitting side by side with Jean Prouvaire atop the ruin of the barricade. Bahorel was beaming at them.

“It took you all long enough, but here you are! We have been waiting for you. Really, Enjolras, I can’t believe you had the audacity to fling my body into the Rue Mondetour like all the others! Do I not deserve a place of honor? You should have propped me up on the barricade here, carbine in hand. It might have given the national guard quite a fright!”

Feuilly stepped forward, looking strained, as though he could not decide whether to laugh at Bahorel’s jest in light of everything. “Come down, you two. We need to figure out what to do.”

“What to do,” scoffed Bahorel good-naturedly, sliding down to the ground and joining the rest of them, Prouvaire following close behind. “We are dead, my friend. What more is there to do?”

“Why, whatever we like,” said Bossuet. Out of all his friends, Enjolras noticed, he appeared the least uneasy about their situation. “Surely dying releases one of worldly responsibilities. We cannot be expected to pay rent, nor attend class.”

“You never did either of those anyway,” said Joly, fondness shining through even his bewilderment at his newfound state of being.

Enjolras tried to smile at this conversation, but his friends’ banter was not enough to drown out the other, quieter exchange he heard nearby. Combeferre had pulled Prouvaire aside and grasped him by the hand.

“We were going to try and save you,” Combeferre told him, his voice both sad and urgent. “But we were not quick enough. I was going to try-“

“Oh, but I’m elated!” Prouvaire answered, waving Combeferre’s contrition away with a sweep of his hand. He smiled, the sincerity behind it honed to set Combeferre at ease again. “I have a different bone to pick with you! How could you have been so undecided on the existence of ghosts for so long, Combeferre? We do exist! You see, I told you so!”

Combeferre could only smile back at that, though shakily. Enjolras rested a bracing hand on his shoulder.

“This is all very well,” Feuilly said, making a gesture that at once encompassed Bahorel and Bossuet’s verbal jabs, Courfeyrac’s distress, Combeferre’s sorrow, and Prouvaire’s delight. He still wore a closed expression, but death had not robbed Feuilly of everyday practicality and it was clear he wanted to steer them back on course. “We are somehow still here, but how, why, is it so? Surely there must be a reason for it.”

Enjolras could not answer that, not yet, though he supposed he would have a great deal of time to mull it over later. He thought for a moment, and when he made to speak, his friends turned to listen.

“Perhaps we will know for certain, later on,” he said. “It is impossible, now, to continue our fight. We have lost this battle; we have made our protest of corpses. Others will take up the torch. But for us, presently, I suppose we might-“ Enjolras broke off, his imagination failing him.  _What_  might they do?

“We might do what we did in life, I expect,” Joly chimed in lightly. “Only without the limitations of the physical body.” At the moment, he was engaged in looking at a darkened shop window intently, though his reflection could not be seen. He stuck his tongue out, as though this would make it appear, but it did not. “Oh dear.”

Bossuet, who had been watching Joly with amusement, abruptly stood up straighter, eyes suddenly alight with possibility. “Haunt Blondeau,” he said, and looked triumphant at the noise of admiration Bahorel made at this idea.

“Haunt Blondeau,” repeated Bahorel. “In a literal rather than figurative sense. I would gladly enter the law school if it means giving that fine old fellow a good fright—there is no chance I will accidentally pass the bar now.”

Feuilly stared at him. It was evident that he wished for loftier goals than this, to continue their work in any way they could, and Enjolras was awash with that familiar admiration for him, a sentiment he had held ever since they first had met. But when Feuilly turned toward him to ask his opinion on the matter, Enjolras could not give him the answer he wanted. He was as out of his depth as anyone. He inclined his head.

“My friend, it is impossible that we will not find some way of carrying on; our goals, I am certain, have not changed. But it will take time, just as the momentum between this émeute and the next will take time to build again. We need to learn our capabilities.”

Feuilly conceded the point with a smile. “In light of the situation- Well, I suppose what we learn from doing anything at all will help us find our way again."

"It sounds as though you two think that haunting Blondeau is the first step towards finding our way back to revolution," said Bahorel with a hearty laugh. "I'm even more eager. Shall we go?"

Courfeyrac, who had been listening to the conversation without much enthusiasm, shook his head. “Hold a moment,” he said. “But where is Marius? He should be here too.”

“I assumed Marius had been taken prisoner,” Enjolras said, frowning. “I did not see him enter the Corinthe with the last of us.”

“Marius was indeed taken prisoner, but not the national guard,” said Bahorel. “Jehan and I saw him; he was taken into the sewers by that old fellow, the one who arrived midway through everything.”

“He was shot,” Prouvaire added. “But still alive, I believe.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “The sewers. Leave it to Marius to get himself dragged through a quagmire full of-“

“We should find him,” Courfeyrac interjected with uncharacteristic anxiety. He looked around, searching his friends’ faces with a drawn expression. “We might ensure he is safe. Help him, somehow, if he needs it. I’m not sure I could stand it if-“ He broke off.

The rest bowed their heads, and murmured their assent. There would be time enough for mischief in the future. Marius was the only one amongst them left; it felt right to see him off, to ensure he made it to safety. Their greatest chance for finding him, as well as the barricade’s mysterious savior, was to watch the gratings where the twisting tunnels of the sewer let out into the Seine, and so they all started out in that direction. 

They walked along in relative silence, occasionally broken by a comment by Bossuet or Grantaire in their attempts to lighten the mood. Whatever levity had been in the atmosphere earlier had diminished somewhat, but it did not quite dip into despair. It was a pensive air, as though they were all experiencing one shared reverie. Perhaps those who still had them thought of their families, their friends and lovers who were still yet living. They had time, now that the fighting was over, to dwell on such things. 

At Enjolras’ right, Combeferre still looked downcast, and Enjolras did not have to ask to know that his mind was on his mother, his sister, forgotten during the battle and now remembered. On his other side Courfeyrac, perhaps thinking of something similar, was still sad, quiet.

Enjolras himself had no one left to mourn him. Perhaps a family friend or two, but that was all. He slipped an arm through Combeferre’s, and then Courfeyrac’s.

“I won’t have either of you in low spirits,” he said solemnly. “It disturbs me greatly, that you seem a shadow of your former selves.”

His friends both looked at him in surprise, but Courfeyrac managed a true smile for the first time. “Does it haunt you, Enjolras, to see us this way?”

Combeferre gave a watery laugh. “We should do our best to liven up, Courfeyrac, or Enjolras will never rest easy, poor soul!”

They both held onto his arms more tightly, and Enjolras felt a great, sweeping relief that whatever state of existence he would have to lead from here on out, he would have them beside him still.

As the group reached the river and gathered near to each other, ready to keep watch for the two survivors, Enjolras looked around at them all. Everything had changed, but he refused to believe that they were lost. They might grieve for the lives they had lead, for everything they had once known, but they were not at an end. This was merely a detour in the road they had traveled, for the question in each of their hearts was surely the same as it always had been, though it might take time to find the answer. What duty to France could all of them still uphold, together?


End file.
